Days Scattered Behind
by isumi 'kivic
Summary: A oneshots compilation of my fics that take place on happier times. In which everything is rainbow and unicorns and nothing hurts because Saruhiko's still with HOMRA and Totsuka and Mikoto are ALIVE and WELL and KICKING. Mostly HOMRA-centric, and Saruhiko/Misaki.
1. Excite Me More (Even If You Hate Me)

Title: Excite Me More (Even If You Hate Me)

Fandom: [K] Project Anime

Characters/Pairing: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki.

Disclaimer: [K] belongs to GoRA and GoHands, I owe none and produce no money out of this.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, this was written before episode 5, ha.

A/N: This will be a compilations of my one-shots that takes place in the time when Fushimi is still in HOMRA and Totsuka's alive and everything is rainbow and unicorns and nothing hurts. It will have lots of Saruhiko/Misaki pieces, and Anna-related fluff, and basically HOMRA fluff. You know. Because there was a time when everything was alright and awesome.

This one was written just after episode four because. The preview of episode 5. Fucking killed me times and Mamoru's drawl does not help at all. /dies So yeah, more Fushimi/Yata nonsense from me, sorry.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Excite Me More (Even If You Hate Me)_

"Did you ever," Saruhiko begins, carding his fingers through Misaki's already mussed up hair, but said person is already deeply asleep, sprawled on top of Saruhiko, his right cheek against Saruhiko's naked chest. The snore he emits is rhythmic, and sometimes his eyelashes flutter as he mumbles something unintelligible. Saruhiko watches, just as fascinated as he was the first time Misaki fell asleep in his arms.

He doesn't quite know how to end that sentence. Did you ever stop liking me? Did you ever feel angry or mad enough at me it turns to hate? Did you ever regret knowing me at all; did you ever stop and think if you're satisfied? Saruhiko clicks his tongue, hating the many questions flashing on his head.

He hears movement downstairs; the clink of glasses and little spoons, the hearty laughter and violent banters, the occasional expressionless remarks; voices he's grown familiar to. The King's room is the only one upstairs that sees frequent use, but Kusanagi-san likes to keep a room open for any HOMRA member who needs a temporary place to crash. Saruhiko can't say he likes the room much: the couch is lumpy, there's no bed, the wall is rather thin, and there's practically nothing in the room except a couch and a small coffee table. But the room is convenient, especially at times like this, when Misaki's presence just becomes too much for him to bear and he has to grab and kiss and fight and touch him until the two of them melt into one existence.

Misaki is never quiet, thus what they do in the room is practically an open secret. Totsuka will give them amused looks all day, and Anna will stare at them, half in confusion and half in curiosity, because no one has the heart to tell the eleven-year-old girl yet about the birds and the bees. The King will just turn uninterested eyes on them, and occasionally a small smirk, but Kusanagi-san will lecture them on dirtying the room, making them clean up rigorously afterwads. Which usually ends in Saruhiko sparring with Misaki anyway, so it doesn't matter.

Saruhiko clicks his tongue, tracing Misaki's cheekbone with a finger.

They fought with SCEPTER 4 today.

Some HOMRA members were causing a scene with some kind of mafia gang, and the situation had become tensed enough for the King to go there and check on them himself. Saruhiko had hung back, with Misaki and Kusanagi-san and Totsuka-san, watched the King burnt a considerable amount of the apartment in irritation before SCEPTER 4 came barging in. They fought, and Saruhiko even got a chance to go against the Blue King himself.

He'd gone and attacked, and the Blue King had smiled from behind his sword, interest sparking in his eyes.

"_We could always have someone with your skill in our clan."_

The memory burns behind his eyelids; the Blue King's smile, coy and confident, his voice calm and relaxed enough that Saruhiko just knew he wasn't fighting seriously, his eyes staring directly into Saruhiko's, probing and intense and unraveling everything inside him.

"_If you're ever bored, come to us. Who knows, maybe you'll find it even more fun fighting against the Reds rather than being one of them."_

That was the last thing the Blue King said to him, because then Mikoto suddenly appeared and pushed Saruhiko behind him—like Saruhiko needed to be protected—and Saruhiko could only watch the clash of blue and red aura, bright and explosive and exceedingly beautiful.

It was a short encounter, but the thought has already been planted in his mind: How would it feel to have the whole HOMRA as his enemy? To fight the King or Kusanagi-san? To fight Misaki?

"You're fucking loud." The person on his chest grumbles. Saruhiko looks down to see Misaki open his eyes, still half-awake, irritation flashing in his eyes. He finds the corner of his lips quirks up in a smirk; it's always been too easy to rile Misaki up, always so wild and uncontrollable, an existence no one can pin down completely. "Shut up."

Saruhiko clicks his tongue. "I can't shut up when I haven't said a damn thing."

"This," Misaki taps his chest on where his heart is, exactly where Misaki's ear was pressed against as the shorter boy slept. "Is goddamn loud. The fuck are you thinking anyway?"

Saruhiko pauses, just now noticing how his heart has been pounding. Exhilaration courses through his whole being, and with a start, he realizes that he's excited. He's excited at the thought of fighting the whole HOMRA, fighting _Misaki_, to have those fiery, angry eyes turn to him with intense hatred. Misaki, who fights back-to-back with him, who surrenders into his arms if Saruhiko fights hard enough, who grins and yells and punch him in the face. Misaki, who gives his whole being in his feelings, who hates and loves with everything that he's made of, who can get furious and insanely violent in a blink of an eye.

Misaki always, always excites him. The thought of having him as a foe is—unbearably exhilarating.

He shudders, though he can't say if it's from the thought or from the way Misaki is biting absently on his HOMRA insignia. He swats on Misaki's head, bops him when the brunette doesn't stop. Misaki yelps, rising an angry gaze at him, and Saruhiko's heart jumps in anticipation. He breathes out, harshly, before putting a hand on Misaki's nape and pulling him down for a hard, bruising kiss.

Misaki fights, biting down hard on Saruhiko's lower lip until he tastes copper, but Saruhiko doesn't mind.

This. This is what he wants to live for. This sense of excitement, of exhilaration that makes the dull world filled with colors again. This intense sensation that makes it hard to breathe, when he can feel a thousand emotions swirling inside his chest, sparking heat on every single nerve of his body, sending . It's not enough, Saruhiko thinks. More. He wants more. But when this is over and Misaki is gone, everything will change back into muted, boring colors. The spark in him will be gone, leaving him numb.

He lets a hand travel down Misaki's spine, listens to the soft gasp escaping from the shorter boy's lips, takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, and ultimately tries to mold their existence into one.

This thrill that Misaki brings. This feeling of being alive that Misaki envelopes him with. Will it change, if he were to be Saruhiko's enemy? Or will it turn more intense, more—_arousing_?

He feels the laughter at the back of his throat, goes dizzy for a second because the thought—combined with Misaki's movement on top of him—sends electric pleasure through him. Misaki, who is always so very free, whose heart belongs to no one even though he offers the King his utmost loyalty—Saruhiko wants him. He wants everything Misaki has to give—be it love or hate, as long as Misaki's eyes focus only at him. So long as Misaki looks at no one else.

He wants to be someone Misaki both loves and hates the most.

"Shit, ah—" Misaki breaks the kiss to catch a breath; his back arching beautifully when Saruhiko's hand reaches between his legs. "Goddammit, ah! Saruhiko—fuck—"

Saruhiko leans up to follow him and takes Misaki's lips back.

-o0o-

I'm not brave enough to write porn. Shoot me.


	2. Your Color Across the World

Title: Your Color Across the World

Fandom: [K] Project Anime

Characters/Pairing: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki.

Disclaimer: [K] belongs to GoRA and GoHands, I owe none and produce no money out of this.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, OOC-ness? Written just after episode five, by the way.

A/N: majinxkayleigh on tumblr requested fluff. I'm—seriously I usually write teeth-rotting fluff that makes people puke, but this pairing. I can't do it. I'm sorry, I hope this is fluffy enough for you!

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Your Color Across the World_

He was startled awake at the absence of familiar heartbeats under his ear.

Everything was silent. He couldn't even hear anything drifting up from the bar downstairs, and for a second he thought he'd slept all afternoon away and into the midnight. Except he'd done that before, and he knew Kusanagi-san should still be awake, having a date with his bar counter while polishing the already shiny wine glasses. Seriously, the infatuation that man had with his bar couldn't be fucking healthy.

He was sprawled on the couch. Alone. The blanket was pooling around his hips, providing little to cover all his naked glory, and it was _freezing_. Misaki groaned in irritation, because he absolutely hated it if he woke up _alone_ when he'd been asleep with _someone_. One day, he'd chop that monkey's head off if he kept this up.

"Awake already?"

The drawl brought forth a scowl onto his face. Slowly, he raised his head, looking up to see Saruhiko sitting on the couch arm by the open window as he kept his gaze outside, careless to the fact that he was fucking naked and as far as Misaki knew, there was a six-year-old girl living in the building across this room. Idiot monkey never gave a thought about decency and females.

"What the fuck, Saru?" Misaki's eyes narrowed. "Close the window."

Saruhiko made a noise at the back of his throat and clicked his tongue, but never moved.

It was raining outside. Freaking freezing rain, because winter was fast approaching and the weather forecast said that they might have early snow this year. Seeing that the couch where he was sprawled naked on was just off to the side of the window, it was no wonder he felt like he was in the fucking arctic. Misaki raised a hand to slap Saruhiko's arm, hard.

"It's fucking freezing. Close the window, dumbass."

"Look, Misaki."

The lack of drawl on the syllables of his name got his attention. Saruhiko loved teasing him, loved riling him up until he couldn't help but shout louder and louder at the fucked-up monkey, sometimes followed by several kicks or jabs. Even when they fuck (_made love_, Totsuka-san said, but making love was supposed to be gentle and they had never been, and besides, making love was for people with emotions who loved each other. Misaki wasn't quite sure they fall into that category), the drawl was rarely absent—usually only vanishing entirely moments before Saruhiko stumbled over the edge and came.

Movements still sluggish from sleep, Misaki struggled free from the blanket, letting it fall to the floor completely. He pushed himself up slowly onto his hands and knees, poking his head behind Saruhiko's shoulder to get a good look outside. Then he frowned.

"Huh," he said, for once feeling dumb because whatever it was, it was something that made Saruhiko forget to drawl his name, and that's got to be freaking important. "What are we looking at, exactly?"

Saruhiko didn't answer, didn't even blink, didn't even twitch when Misaki rested his chin on his shoulder. There was nothing outside. Nothing except the rain blurring all lines in this world into depressing grey, dulling every color into muted, boring shades. It was depressing, it was boring, it was meaningless, and Misaki hated it. There was a sudden unquenchable urge to fly off the window with his skateboard and streak HOMRA's red across every single thing in this city, if only to give the world a little bit of color.

"You can't when it's raining like this."

Misaki blinked. "Fuck, did I say that out loud."

Saruhiko's head turned slowly, and Misaki's breath stuttered when Saruhiko's nose brushed his cheek. Saruhiko's lips quirked up in a familiar smirk; his lips a breadth away from the corner of Misaki's, and just like that, Misaki shivered.

In his defense, it was freezing.

"Or maybe," Saruhiko breathed out, lips moving against the corner of Misaki's own lips, kissing and yet not quite touching. "You can."

Misaki narrowed his eyes.

"Always the brightest." Saruhiko's hand trailed up his side, before resting on the small of Misaki's back. "Most vibrant." A tongue darted out, teasingly licking his lower lip, then teeth came to play, tugging his mouth open, and Saruhiko kissed him, deep and thorough, slow yet fierce and smoldering. When the monkey pulled back, Misaki snarled, leaning forward to follow him and captured his lips again, ferocious and wild.

It left both of them breathless, but it felt good, and it didn't feel like he was losing.

Saruhiko's eyes danced, a gleam of excitement and insanity clear for everyone to see, and Misaki recognized challenge when he saw it. The smirk was a familiar one, too; half-crazed and excited and anticipating, one Misaki had long associated with Saruhiko and only Saruhiko. This was insane, Misaki thought as he pulled Saruhiko back onto the couch, tangling their limbs and lips together. Saruhiko was insane, and Misaki had definitely lost his mind, too, because he was proud that he could bring forth such emotions in Saruhiko's eyes.

Saruhiko, who always looked at everything in boredom. Saruhiko, who hated everything and everyone, who constantly craved the thrill of a challenge, whose heart even Mikoto-san couldn't touch. Saruhiko, who loved blood and flesh and pain, who was so brilliant Misaki couldn't bear to let go.

"_Oh. You smell like love, Yata-chan."_

"_What the hell, Totsuka-san? The camera's too close, too close!"_

"_Did you know that love between Cancer and Scorpio could be wounding, yet deeply intimate nonetheless? Aah, must be nice to be young."_

"… _wait, you're only three years older than we are!"_

"Mi-sa-ki…" Saruhiko drawled, peering up from beneath hooded eyes. His gaze was dark, both with lust and a craving for power, for dominance. Insanity, Misaki knew, but it was Saruhiko. It was Saruhiko, so it was fine.

Closing his eyes, Misaki leaned down, welcoming insanity into the very core of his being.

-o0ofinitoo0o-


	3. Her Friends Say Her Dad is A King

Title: **Her Friends Says Her Dad is a King (and her brothers the Knights)**

Fandom: [K] Project Anime

Characters/Pairing: Kushina Anna-centric, HOMRA early members.

Disclaimer: [K] belongs to GoRA and GoHands, I owe none and produce no money out of this.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, mentions of sexual harassment (kinda?), reference to the novel [K] Side Red information from [K] facebook fanpage. Written just after episode six.

A/N: After episode six, I need a lot of HOMRA fluff. Thus this is born. Also thanks to every single member of [K] fandom joining kidsfromhomura's livestream; I wouldn't have survived all the feels without you guys.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Her Friends Say Her Dad is a King (and her brothers the Knights)_

Kushina Honami is a good person.

"Anna-chan, Auntie bought you this beautiful red ribbon! It's a pretty red, isn't it?"

Kushina Honami is also a young woman living very much alone, every so often overworking herself because the school she teaches at doesn't have enough teachers, and she refuses to leave the students unless the school is closed. Anna takes it in stride; her late parents had been too busy to pay much attention to her back when they were still alive. Love and praises had come in the form of pretty dresses and delicious treats, not good-night kisses or hand-holding.

She doesn't tell her aunt that she's a Strain, but fate apparently decides that she should have the Red King by her side _forever_.

She loves Mikoto. She also loves Izumo and Tatara. HOMRA becomes a home for her before long; a bar warm with understanding smiles and free laughter, sometimes with jokes crude enough that Tatara will cover her ears with an apologetic smile while Izumo yells at the rest of the members. It's a family, both for her and Mikoto, who desperately need one although neither will admit it.

-o0o-

"How's school today, Anna-chan?"

"It's alright."

Izumo frowns, bends down to look her in the eyes. In her vision, Izumo's eyes are dark, probing, slowly reading her as if she's a book written in codes. She keeps her face impassive, but Izumo probably knows better. Anna has gone through his mind more often than Izumo perhaps ever realized, and even now sometimes she surprises herself with how perceptive the bartender is.

"Alright… huh?"

She resists the urge to fiddle with her marbles—her anchors to steady herself in the world whenever Mikoto isn't close enough for her to grab at. Izumo would notice, would lead her in a game of cryptic words to coax whatever she has in mind. She wouldn't really mind, not when it's Izumo or Mikoto or Tatara, but she doesn't like to talk. Talking makes everything even more real, tangible through her fingers, and she prefers looking at everything through her marbles.

She nods, sips her juice slowly, and Izumo sighs. A hand pats her on the head, careful not to upset the neat pigtails Kushina Honami did for her that morning.

She almost smiles.

-o00-

She just doesn't like her new homeroom teacher.

"Anna-chan, Sensei is calling you."

At times like this, Anna selfishly wishes her power wouldn't let her read other people's minds. She stands and walks forward, to where her homeroom teacher is smiling down at her, waiting with a letter in hand. There's a visible crease on his otherwise perfect suit, his tie is a bit skewed, and the gleam in his eyes has a familiar edge she often sees on Saruhiko's eyes before he drags Misaki upstairs to do something in HOMRA's spare room.

The look unsettles her for the first time, because it is directed at her.

"Sensei."

Her voice is steady, her face stays devoid of emotion.

"Oh, Kushina-chan." The hand holding the letter is extended towards her, and then she can see the thoughts. Of hands grabbing her captive, of fingers slipping underneath her dress, of lips tugging at her neck. She falters, looking up at her homeroom teacher intently, and carefully takes the letter without touching her Sensei's hand.

"That's for Parents Day next Friday—please bring someone with you this year, alright?" a hand touches her shoulder, and it takes everything in her not to jerk back. "Sensei is really looking forward to see your family."

-o0o-

She doesn't give the letter to Honami, because Honami is busy and she doesn't want her to meet the homeroom teacher.

She slips the letter underneath the jukebox, where everyone never bothers to check, and spends the rest of the evening fiddling with her marbles and listening to Tatara's song.

-o0o-

"Anna," Tatara says, smiling over his guitar and her glass of ice soda. "I saw your homeroom teacher on the way here today."

Anna glances up. Mikoto and Izumo both turns to Tatara, perking with small interest.

"You do?" Izumo leans forward onto the bar counter. "How does he look?"

"Very handsome," Tatara anwers cheerfully. "I've seen him several times around here."

"He's a very dirty person," Anna says quietly and finishes her drink. The ice in her glass clinks daintily when she sets it aside.

-o0o-

A kid in her class asks, "who is coming with you tomorrow, Anna-chan?"

She says smoothly: "No one."

-o0o-

She isn't in the bar when Tatara finds the Parents Day letter underneath the juke box.

He waves it around excitedly, nearly jumping Mikoto from behind when the Red King comes down from his room. Mikoto eyes him warily, and Izumo grabs the back of Tatara's neck to sit him down on the counter before Mikoto hits him on the head again. Tatara laughs, clear and light, and says, "so what are we going to do about this, King?"

"I can't believe she doesn't even tell us anything about this," Izumo murmurs, passing the letter to Misaki when the younger boy peers over his shoulder. Behind him, Saruhiko hovers around. "Her aunt is very busy; Anna probably doesn't want to make her go."

"Should we go, King?" Tatara's eyes are positively dancing.

Misaki makes a questioning noise before raising his eyes from the letter. "It says only family can go for Parents Day."

"Silly Yata," Tatara leans back, resting his head on Izumo's shoulder. "Aren't we all?"

-o0o-

When five most prominent members of HOMRA waltz into her class like they own the school, Anna doesn't know if she should laugh or cry, so she keeps her face blank.

"I'm sorry," her homeroom teacher is stammering. "But this is only for parents or family."

"We're her brothers," Tatara replies simply, looks thoughtful for a second, and adds, "Though King is practically Anna's Papa."

Mikoto grunts something she can't quite decipher, but apparently it's enough for her homeroom teacher to close his mouth and nod his assent. Other parents standing on the back of the class look wary, keeping their distance to the HOMRA members flocking together near the door. Anna turns her head back, tries to process how out of place Mikoto and the others are in this classroom, then her gaze catches Tatara's.

He waves.

So do the other members.

Mikoto has an unlit cigarette in his left hand, but he raises his other hand in place of a wave. Anna raises her own, and nods.

"They're all your brothers, Anna-chan?" the little boy next to her whispers. "They look so cool!"

The corners of her mouth twitches up.

-o0o-

"I work as a bartender," Izumo says in front of the class. "I feed the guy with red hair standing over there, see him? Your parents might know him as the Red King."

"Wow," a kid pipes up. "He's a King?" There are worried murmurs around the class, but another girl raises her hand. "Does he have knights too?"

"Oh, I think they fall in that category," Izumo gestures to where Misaki and Saruhiko stand close to each other; Misaki looking nervous and Saruhiko nonchalant as usual. Anna thinks Saruhiko might only be here because Misaki drags him along, but she figures Saruhiko enjoys it anyway. He enjoys everything as long as Misaki is doing it, too.

"Do you beat up bad guys, Mister?"

Misaki straightens up, tensing. "O-oh! Yeah, I hit them with my baseball bat."

The girl tilts her head. "Don't knights use swords?"

"That's a long time ago, Miss," Tatara replies. "Our knights fight with baseball bat and skateboard, or with bare hands."

"Please," her homeroom teacher cuts in nervously, "Can we maybe not talk about violence in front of the childr-?"

And then there's a familiar clicking noise that Anna recognizes as Saruhiko's tongue-clicking. He's looking at her homeroom teacher, eyes bored and condescending, and her teacher falls silent again.

"What does a bartender do, Mister?"

"Well, I make people drinks," Izumo's smile turns into a smirk, a pride Anna has long associated with Izumo and his obsession with his bar flashing on his gaze. "See, I have wonderful recipes for drinks, so people come to pay me for making drinks."

For a moment, the classroom is silent. Then another boy says, "So Mister Bartender is the Maid?"

"Fuh."

Anna clasps her hands on her mouth. It's too late, though. All eyes are on her, intent and surprised and, in Tatara's case, gleeful.

"Ah, Anna, you just laughed!"

She shakes her head, schools her face back into its usual expressionless state, and says with as much dignity as she can muster, "I did not."

Tatara and Izumo chuckles, Saruhiko merely blinks and Misaki grins, but Anna's favorite is the way Mikoto's lips curl up into a small smirk.

-o0o-

Mikoto and Izumo vanish down the hall after class. Anna doesn't know what they're doing, doesn't know how Mikoto corners her homeroom teacher on the hallway near the faculty office, doesn't know how Izumo lazily blocks his other side.

She doesn't know how Mikoto lets the tip of his fingers burns with flames hot enough to make her homeroom teacher flinch. She also doesn't know how Izumo leans forward, smiles and says, "If you ever lay a hand on our Anna, you should be prepared for the consequences."

Because Izumo never needs her to say anything more than a sentence to figure things out, and Mikoto is literally an overprotective lion.

-o0o-

On the way home, she grips Mikoto's jacket the way she always does. Tatara and Misaki flank them, and Saruhiko hovers right behind her and Misaki, while Izumo goes to fetch the car.

"Today is really fun isn't it, Anna?" Tatara bends down to fix her ribbon. "We should come again next year."

She stares up, locks her gaze with Tatara's and imagines the warm gold color that supposes to fill Tatara's gray iris in her vision. She'll take her marbles out and sees everyone through them, later, just to remind her of how the world is painted with their presence. Mikoto shifts, turning and looking down at her, and she stares back up, remembers clearly the color of fire that is Mikoto's eyes.

And she smiles.

"Thank you."

-o0ofinitoo0o-


	4. Soaked with History

Title: Soaked with History

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters/Pairings: Kusanagi Izumo/Bar Counter, HOMRA. *laughs* Appearance of Papa!Mikoto, Mamabear!Izumo, Totsuka Tatara, Kamamoto Rikio, mentions of Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki and Kushina Anna.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy. I'm half-serious about the IzuBar pairing, haha. In which everything is rainbows and unicorns and nothing hurts because Saruhiko is still with HOMRA and Totsuka Tatara is ALIIIVEEE.

A/N: This was written after episode 6, I think, or was it 7? I can't remember. But yeah, the IzuBar pairing was thanks to another livestream hosted by kidsfromhomura on tumblr.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Soaked with History_

Izumo loves his bar.

It is so well-polished it gleams with perfection; a rosewood bar counter imported straight from a pub in England, heavy with history and the laughter of patrons enjoying their times all throughout the century. Izumo likes the still strong scent of ale and cigarettes that mixes with the smell of old wood, loves how smooth the surface feels under his fingertips. Every single day, he polishes it with great care, checking every nook and corner of the fine piece of furniture, careful not to rub too rough to scratch it, and not too soft that a corner wouldn't shine as brilliantly as the rest of the counter. He loves the color—a dark brown that blends in flawlessly with everything around it no matter how bizarre a thing Tatara comes up with to add to the interior.

He never lets a speck of dust marring the counter. Every single member of HOMRA knows better than to spill anything onto the counter lest they risk Izumo's wrath. Not even Mikoto dares to interrupt Izumo when he's polishing his bar counter—it is a private and wonderful experience, to immerse himself in the smell of a good bar, listening to the counter telling him of laughter and chatters from years and years ago, inhaling the scent of simple, mundane day-to-day happiness that is often forgotten to be a part of history. It gives him some sort of a contented feeling, a feeling of connected to people living centuries before him, knowing that such happiness still exist in this day and time.

But love and pride is a different thing, and Izumo prides his bar even more.

It isn't just about the counter. It is the way his bar has inexplicably transformed into home for these random people popping into his life in the last eight years. If a bar is supposed to be a place where everyone can forget their problems by drinking and having a good time, making new acquaintances and forging new bond, his HOMRA bar is more than that. It is home now, Izumo realizes, in a lot of different ways. It is home for him and Mikoto and Anna, home for Tatara who never ceases to sneak in even before he comes of age, home for Yata and Fushimi who have nothing left in the world, home for Kamamoto who craves for company, home for the rest of the members who seek a purpose in their lives.

He's pretty sure he's the only bartender in the world who has to deal with this kind of domestic idiocy every day, but he can't quite say he minds.

"Mikoto," he says, peering at the clock on the wall. There's a dart stuck to its side, a sign that he's going to strangle Yata when the kid comes back later. "It's almost three, Anna's school should be over."

Mikoto grunts out a "hn," rising to his feet after killing his cigarette on the ashtray. The lump on the sofa moves, and from under the blanket, Tatara's tuft of golden hair pokes out, expression sleepy.

"King, Izumo-san, I'm hungry."

"Me too," Kamamoto grumbles from the other sofa, looking like he'd rather not move or the rest of his life. "We skipped lunch after all, and neither Kusanagi-san or Totsuka-san or Yata-san had a chance to whip something up—"

Izumo sighs. "Whose fault was it that I forgot to order more rice?" His hand reaches out for Mikoto's coat on one of the stools, throwing the heavy fabric at his friend. Mikoto doesn't even need to turn around to catch it. "If you're really hungry then just go out and get some food."

Tatara's head disappears back under the blanket. "But I'm sleepy."

"I have no energy to move," Kamamoto complains. Izumo opens his mouth to scold them, but something upstairs makes a loud thudding sound, and everyone pauses to look up.

"Oh," Tatara says rather cheerfully. "Yata and Fushimi are at it again. Lively, aren't they? I wonder if Fushimi really does—"

Kamamoto buries his face on one palm and groans. "Totsuka-san, really, I'd rather not know in _detail_ what they're doing up there."

"If they so much as scratch the floor, I'll kill them," Izumo mutters darkly, knowing the room would stink of sweat and sex by the time Yata and Fushimi are done. Oh, he'll make them clean up and air the room themselves, but leaving those two kids alone by themselves usually means risking them having more sex or sparring instead of doing their job, and in the end he'll end up having to step into the room. What a hassle.

The clock strikes three. Izumo looks over at Mikoto, who is still standing before the bar counter. "Go, go. Don't let Anna wait too long." He makes a shooing motion with his hands. And that is exactly the second when Tatara's and Kamamoto's stomaches growl simultaneously.

"Hungryyyy." Tatara grins unrepentantly. Kamamoto scratches the back of his head. Izumo sighs.

"I'll bring something back to eat." Mikoto murmurs. And just like that, the two kids on the sofa brighten, throwing their hands up and cheering. Tatara has his blanket thrown up, too, and the fabric makes an odd balloon shape as it slowly drifts back onto his head.

"King, you're the best!"

"Thank you so much, Mikoto-san!"

"You're spoiling them," Izumo points out sternly. Mikoto turns his back and head towards the door, but Izumo catches a small smile playing on the Red King's lips before he slips out of the bar.

The bartender's expression softens for a second. It's a rare sight to see Mikoto so relaxed, after all. It also doesn't mean he'll let these kids lazing around in his bar doing nothing for free food.

"Okay, you two, we're going to clean this place up before Mikoto comes home."

There are half-hearted complaints echoing in the empty bar as he thrusts Tatara and Kamamoto a broom each, but he also notices how the two of them still have their smiles on. It's gone quiet upstairs, and Izumo mentally gives Fushimi and Yata another half an hour before barging in himself and demanding them to clean up. Mikoto and Anna will be home then, and they can all have late lunches while Izumo cooks up something for dinner. _Oyakodon_ should be simple enough to prepare in no time.

He prides his bar for this even more. It is the daily dose of domestic violence and easy laughter carved in every single nook of the bar, of every furniture, of every inch of the floor. It is the way the other members respect his love for the bar counter, it is the way a blanket, a bonsai, a jukebox, and several egg replicas have become a normal sight in his bar. It is the familiar faces present not only when patrons come at evening and night, but persistently also make their ways into his mornings and afternoons, too. HOMRA has become home, and it is in here that Izumo creates a new history every day.

It is in here that he finds his family.

So with a small smile, he takes the cloth he's abandoned moments before and starts polishing his bar counter.

-o0ofinitoo0o-

Oyakodon literally means parents-and-kid-bowl. It's a simple Japanese rice bowl.


	5. Cocoon

Title: Cocoon

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Suoh Mikoto, Kushina Anna, mentions of Totsuka Tatara.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy.

A/N: Inspired by a fanart on tumblr. Also this was written around episode seven or eight.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_COCOON_

She was no stranger to death.

She'd seen many, so many deaths. Her own parents; bodies trapped and crushed inside a car that was almost folded in half. Her aunt's husband; struggling to take in oxygen as his lungs failed him, a gaping wound on his chest, bathed in blood, breaths gurgling. She'd also seen deaths when she delved into people's minds—Izumo's friends, Eric's parents. Totsuka's grandparents.

She'd seen gruesome deaths. She'd also seen peaceful ones.

But when Mikoto crouched before her; eyes unreadable but dark, the tips of his fingers trembling ever so slightly, and his throat worked as he swallowed hard, Anna couldn't think of anything. She merely blinked, even when Mikoto's arms wound up around her, pulling her into a tight embrace; his figure a safe cocoon to shield her from the world, from reality.

_Mikoto_, she wanted to say, but the words died in her throat, because she _knew_. Because slowly but surely, something in her chest gave way, making a gaping hole so empty and void she felt she couldn't breathe. Her arms twitched, wanting to hug Mikoto back, to cling and hold on to the strongest pillar she'd ever known in her life, because if it was Mikoto—Mikoto would be able to make everything alright. Mikoto would be able to keep everything safe.

Because Mikoto's power was to protect.

But Mikoto couldn't keep death from taking someone away.

The hole in her chest took shape. Of someone whose smiles had brightened even the worst day of the clan. Of someone whose songs had been a constant part of Anna's afternoons. Of someone who would randomly read picture books for her, someone who would jump and trap her under the blanket for afternoon naps, someone whose dream was to keep their memories alive.

"He's gone…?"

Because she couldn't imagine Totsuka Tatara not being there anymore.

Mikoto's arms tightened, nearly drowning Anna's lithe figure in his arms as Anna buried her face into the crook of his neck. She closed her eyes and inhaled deep, taking in sorrow and grief and loss and the choking sensation that was denial. She thought she might be crying, because her cheeks felt wet, but she didn't make a sound. Her hands raised to clutch on Mikoto's shirt, bunching them into painful tiny fists, nearly folding herself in her effort to make herself smaller, to fit herself into Mikoto's hold completely, seeking security and reassurance.

She was no stranger to death. She'd seen many, too many in her young life. Enough to make her think she had the rights to accuse God sometimes, because little kids weren't supposed to know that much about death. Little kids weren't supposed to have gaping holes in their chest in the shapes of people they loved.

She remembered her parents, bloodied and unrecognizable. She remembered her Uncle, face frozen in eternal agony. She remembered Totsuka and his cheerful smiles, his stubborn eyes, his warm voice, and wondered if good people were destined to die in pain.

"It's okay, Mikoto," she said, her voice breaking on the last syllable. "It's going to be okay."

The gaping hole stayed.

-o0ofinitoo0o-


	6. A Study on Facing Creepy Pervert Stalker

Title: A Study on Facing Creepy Pervert Stalkers (Case Study: Kushina Anna)

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Kushina Anna-centric, HOMRA.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy. In which everything is rainbow and unicorns and nothing hurts because Saruhiko is still in HOMRA and Totsuka is very much alive and breathing and being sweet.

A/N: Anon-chan on tumblr asked for "anything with Anna and Totsuka". Apparently I am incapable to write Totsuka+Anna fluff without including other HOMRA members, so this is what I came up with. Enjoy, and reviews are loved!

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_A Study on Facing Creepy Pervert Stalkers (Case Study: Kushina Anna)_

"Anna," Izumo said, after the local news flashed a warning notice of a creepy pervert stalker going around their neighborhood. "When you saw one of those people, turn around and run. Understand?"

Anna wanted to say that she'd seen Saruhiko acting the same around Misaki, wanted to ask why Misaki didn't have to run from Saruhiko, but decided against it because Misaki didn't seem to mind Saruhiko hovering around him all the time and Saruhiko only did it to Misaki anyway. She nodded minutely instead, and ate her celery under Mikoto's watchful gaze.

"That isn't going to help at all, Kusanagi-san," Misaki yelled from where he was lounging on the couch, Saruhiko on his back, completely immersed in a book full of numbers and equations. "What you have to do when you meet one of those creepy perverts is to punch them right on the balls!"

So that was why Misaki hit Saruhiko a lot, Anna concluded.

"Oh, I think there are some neat moves we can teach Anna about that!" There was enthusiasm in Rikio's voice, laced with a bit of concerned tone. One big hand patted her on the head, and she looked up to see him grinning down on her, only for the older boy to frown unsurely. "Do you know where to punch, Anna?"

Izumo chucked an empty can of soda at him. "We have enough violence as it is, don't teach her weird things."

Tatara's laughter was a melody washing down their usual domestic violence; a sound Anna loved the most after Mikoto's chuckle. She turned her attention sideways, where Tatara had just sat down next to her with a bowl of unpeeled potatoes. She eyed them in interest, then quickly shoved the last celery on her plate before pushing it towards Izumo. "Thank you for the meal."

A glass of water with a straw peeking out was slid before her, Tatara's fingers keeping the glass steady. The local news was broadcasting the warning again, encouraging the viewers to report to the local police if they saw suspicious strangers. Tatara made a thoughtful sound on the back of his throat and said, "Ah, well, it'll turn out okay in the end. If you're worried so much, Izumo-san, wouldn't it be fine to teach Anna some self-defense?"

Tatara passed her a peeler, making sure that she'd hold it safely, and started peeling the potatoes himself. Anna fished a smaller potato from the bowl, keeping an eye on Tatara's movement and copying them carefully. For a second, she wondered if Tatara had given her the red or the white peeler.

Then Saruhiko was clicking his tongue. "Isn't that too troublesome?" He leaned back, knocking his head with Misaki and smirked when Misaki cussed. "The easiest way to get away from perverts is to tell them that they have small dicks."

Izumo's bark of "Fushimi!" was the last thing she heard, because after that Tatara's hands were covering her ears carefully, so she couldn't hear what everyone was yelling about. But Tatara was chuckling, and the corner of Mikoto's lips was twitching up a little, so she decided it was fine before turning back to continue peeling her potatoes.

If the two of them seemed happy, it must be something good then.

-o0o-

A week later, when she was walking home from school by herself, the creepy pervert stalker appeared.

She blinked, for a moment reminded of how the monsters on Misaki's RPG games randomly appeared out of nowhere, when the man simply opened his coat and shrugged it off, leaving him stark naked in the middle of an empty street.

And HOMRA was only a block away, too.

Her face was blank, staring at the man's junk without so much of a twitch as he slowly walked closer, much like an idiot predator approaching his prey on open-view. She thought back to the conversation after the local news, trying to remember what the HOMRA members had suggested her to do in this situation.

Running wasn't an option; she'd just be caught in a matter of minutes. She couldn't punch him on the balls because this man was not holding any ball. Besides, why would anyone be so upset if someone else punch their balls? They could always buy a new one.

"What's wrong, little girl?" The man crowed. "Are you in shock? It's okay, Uncle isn't going to hurt—"

"Ah," she said, because it came crashing down, and she knew what to do. So she looked up dead at the man's eyes, and told him simply, "you have a small dick."

She didn't really know what it meant, but the man froze completely. Didn't move, didn't blink, not even a single twitch, but his face was one of shock and devastation, and Anna didn't think he was going to move at all soon.

She continued her journey home.

-o0o-

When she told Izumo what happened, everyone freaked out. Except Saruhiko, who simply looked smug because it turned out his advice was sound.

"I'll hunt him down," Izumo gritted out, and for once Tatara didn't wave him off nonchalantly. Instead he leaned forward and hugged Anna from behind, letting the blanket on him fall down on her and didn't move. Anna didn't protest, because Tatara was warm and the blanket smelled like Mikoto. Tatara must have picked it up from Mikoto's room.

Mikoto, who sat on the opposite couch and was now looking thoughtfully at Anna.

"I'll pick you up from now on."

And that was how she ended up being picked up every single day from school by Mikoto.

Also, in a matter of hours, the local news broadcasted about how the creepy pervert stalker was found beaten up half to death in the dumpster.

A new photo of Misaki, Saruhiko and Rikio standing before said dumpster making peace signs with their fingers (except Saruhiko, who had his hands stuffed on his pockets) was pinned on HOMRA message board later. Tatara grinned victoriously at her when he scribbled down a "**NEVER MESS WITH OUR ANNA**" under the picture, before putting the marker away and pulled Anna onto his lap, a song already hovering on his lips. All around her, everyone was lounging the afternoon away lazily: Saruhiko and Misaki half-heartedly bickered about knives and skateboard, Rikio curled up asleep on the sofa, Mikoto nursing a glass of drink and Izumo talking business on the phone.

She fell asleep against Tatara's shoulder, safe and content.

-o0ofinitoo0o-


	7. Countdown From Seven

Title: Countdown from Seven

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Totsuka Tatara-centric, you may squint to see hints of Mikoto/Totsuka and Izumo/Totsuka. Or maybe pretty much Totsuka/everyone, I dunno. Implied Fujishima Kousuke/Eri c Surt, Chitose You/Dewa Masaomi and Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, OOC-ness abound. This is one of those things that explode on me; this was supposed to be seven short drabbles, but yeah. What is short.

A/N: mochijunfan on tumblr wanted some Totsuka+Anna fluff in which Anna is on top of Totsuka (she wants it to be on a bed but I can't recall if there's any bed in the bar? I'm sorry ;A;) and kusaribesamon on tumblr wants Tatara's last seven days, so I thought I'd combine them together. This isn't much but I hope this pleases you guys a little bit! :D

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Countdown from Seven_

**December 01: Yata gets an apron.**

Yata makes a face.

Tatara pauses in stirring the spaghetti sauce; gaze moving back and forth from the red mixture inside the pan and Yata. "No?" he asks in a dismayed tone, before hesitantly brings up the ladle and takes a sip of it himself. His face scrunches up, and Yata laughs.

"No," Yata agrees, grinning. "Some more salt, maybe. What about milk?"

Tatara rolls his eyes. "You put everything in the kitchen that catches your eyes into your cooking, Yata. I don't even know why they still taste good."

"Eh," Yata shrugs, reaching over to turn down the stove. The sauce bubbles up happily at them. "So long as people like my food and I don't accidentally poison anyone." He pauses. "I think Kusanagi-san still has some nuts in the fridge—"

"No, Yata."

"What about some pineapples—"

"No." Tatara laughs, hitting the younger boy on the side of his head with the ladle gently. "Maybe more tomatoes."

He likes being in the kitchen; the mindless cutting and humming as he cooks, the scent of spices hovering in the air, the staccato sounds of knives hitting the cutting board as he cuts down vegetables or meat into bite sizes. He likes having people in the kitchen, too; Izumo's easy company or Anna's observant eyes, Yata's crazy advices that turns out are only making the food more delicious or Kamamoto's curiosity, or, if he's too lucky, Mikoto's silent presence and his occasional requests from the corner of the kitchen.

Yata is the one most often helping him out in the kitchen, though. So Tatara knows a lot of his kitchen habit—that he never wears an apron, that he puts pretty much every ingredient in the fridge, that he babbles when he cooks, and—

"Yata doesn't ever put lots of vegetables in his cooking, does he.."

Yata glances up. "Huh? Oh, yeah—well." He looks back down to the sauce. "Damn Monkey hates them, so I never put lots of them, even back then. Guess that's an old habit."

"Do you know," Totsuka says airily, waving the ladle. "That Cancers are supposed to be caretakers?"

Yata stares blankly at him, then laughs. Tatara grins and offers him more tomatoes to chop up, watches Yata's fingers deftly move with each staccato sound, slicing the tomatoes into haphazard small shapes because he never cares about food looking good anyway.

"I think," Tatara says when Yata accidentally spills some of the sauce on his white shirt, grinning as the younger boy curses. "You should have an apron, Yata."

Yata grimaces. "Ugh, Totsuka-san. That's girly."

"No, it's practical." Tatara replies, because for some reason he just knows that Yata will be spending more time in the kitchen from now on. Also, Tatara loves his apron—a birthday gift from Mikoto, though he's pretty sure Izumo has a hand in picking it out, but still. It's a plain black apron with a very lovely shade of red lines streaking at random across his chest. The fabric is comfortable and easy to wash, too. "Mine's pretty awesome, isn't it?"

"Well, Mikoto-san gave it to you.." Yata trails off, and Tatara can hear the unspoken _everything Mikoto-san's got his hand on is awesome_, knows how Yata hero-worships Mikoto, but it's not like he can't understand why. Mikoto is a powerful existence, a King who would stand tall to protect his clan, someone to look up on and be proud of.

He smiles, and deftly unties his apron. "I'll give it to you."

"Huh?"

"I can ask King to buy me another one," he pushes the apron into Yata's arms, fixing him a stern look when Yata's clearly about to refuse. "You'll be in the kitchen a lot from now on. Also, when I'm not here, you'll be the one to cook for the others."

Yata blinks. "When you're not here? Where are you going?"

Tatara pauses, blinking back, because he wasn't really thinking when he said all of that, so he simply tilts his head sideways and shrugs. "No where. I have no idea."

Yata's fingers are holding the fabric tight as his shoulders shake in laughter announcing how weird Tatara is, and he joins in.

-o0o-

**December 02: They bought a choker for Eric.**

The color is an elegant, metallic red that shines under the department store blinding lights. It's leather, smooth under his fingers, and the clasp is easy to undo.

Eric stares.

Tatara says, "do you want this?"

Eric starts. "N-no." He looks down, glances up again at the choker, then shakes his head hard. Tatara suppresses a smile, because a hesitant Eric looks a lot like a drowned puppy."No—that's okay."

Tatara hums. "We can just buy it if you want. It's on sale." He points at the sign—it's seventy percent off, there should be more than enough money left from what Izumo-san has given him to stock the kitchen today. Eric's gaze is following his finger, then goes back to the choker with a conflicted look, before shaking his head again and says, "no. I don't have—the money."

Tatara simply stares, because Eric has been a part of HOMRA for one year and a half, and he still worries about money? "Izumo-san won't mind."

Eric looks scandalized,. "N-no! That's—I can't just. Use Kusanagi-san's." And the look on his face reminds Tatara about where Eric came from, how long he's spent living as someone else's dog, how he's not used to people treating him nicely, how he doesn't know how to carry himself. Eric steps back, and it's funny, because it almost seems like he's trying to hide himself from the choker behind Tatara's back. He tugs on Tatara's sleeve. "Let's go, Totsuka-san."

"Alright," Tatara says, and then they're off going back to the bar, where everyone is loudly discussing this year's plan for Anna's birthday party ("Let's make it a surprise!" Yata announces, which idea kind of becomes a moot point anyway since Anna is _in the same room as them_). He lets Eric and Akagi take care of the shopping bags, then skips over to where Fujishima stands and says, "let's go!"

Fujishima blinks. "Totsuka-san?"

"Come on, we'll make it a surprise!"

Fujishima tumbles along with him back to the department store, where Tatara proceeds to get the choker and pay for it. Fujishima just stares, then asks, "is that your present for Anna this year?"

Tatara looks at him incredulously. "Of course not. " Then he grins. "Anna's birthday present will be something very special, though I still don't know what to get her."

"Oh," Fujishima says. "Are you buying that with Kusanagi-san's money?"

"He won't mind."

"He won't." Fujishima agrees, still confused. "Are you buying that for me?"

"Yep." Tatara shoves the choker at him, flashes a smile at the girl on the back of the register, then accepts his change. "And you're going to give it to Eric."

Fujishima makes an understanding noise at the back of his throat, dangling the choker before his eyes and examining it carefully. "This is a good one."

"He has good taste," Tatara agrees.

Eric splutters and turns bright red when Fujishima clasps the choker on his neck. Tatara laughs and laughs, because watching Eric protesting futilely is amusing, especially because Fujishima has his deadpan face on.

"I don't need this!"

"You don't have to need it."

"But I can't just—how did you—just, take it back!"

"Didn't you want it?"

Eric glares sullenly, then turns to look at Tatara and glares some more. Tatara stops laughing, turns his grin into a smile instead, and Fujishima bops Eric on the head. "Say thank you," he tells him. Eric's lips tremble a little bit.

"Thank you…Totsuka-san."

"Kusanagi-san, too." Fujishima adds, and Izumo turns from the glass he's polishing, eyebrows tauting in confusion before he looks at Tatara and frowns. Tatara grins. Izumo sighs.

"Well, I suppose it's fine, if it's once in a while." Izumo smiles. "Do you like it, Eric?"

Eric's face turns redder, if possible. "I—uhh. Y-yeah. Thank you."

"It's okay to want something once in a while," Tatara tells him. "Eric should be a bit more honest, okay?"

He catches Fujishima's finger taps on the choker lightly; apparently that's the only reassurance that Eric needs, because the younger boy nods and mumbles, "maybe once in a while."

Tatara thinks the corner of Eric's lips twitches up, though, so that's okay.

-o0o-

**December 03: Saruhiko finds a letter.**

"I hope it's not a bother," he says to Izumo, to which Izumo shrugs, but Tatara knows that Izumo will say the exact same thing to Awashima Seri, so he really, really hopes it isn't going to be a bother.

He writes about a lot of things, of course, but mostly he writes about Yata, because he knows that's what Saruhiko would want to know the most. Stalking Yata around only gets Saruhiko so much, so Tatara thinks he can help the so-called Traitor to keep up with the news from inside HOMRA. Not the overly secret part though—that's got more to do with Izumo and whatever shady business he has lined up this week.

Tatara writes about the works Yata's been doing, slips some photos of the short boy, introduces the new members and tells about who gets in fights with who, then writes some more about Yata's cooking. He writes of Yata's newfound swear words that don't seem to make sense to him, of Izumo's new drinks and Anna's new dresses, of Yata's neat skateboard moves, of the people Mikoto sees and Mikoto doesn't see. He writes about the past, too, because they're all tied together with memories, and memories legitimately belong to the past. Then he writes more about Yata, tells Saruhiko that Yata sometimes sleep fitfully at night, that Yata is still scared of ghosts, that he thinks Yata misses Saruhiko terribly, but it seems like the Blues have been good for Saruhiko so Tatara doesn't think Saruhiko should come back. But of course, if he ever wanted to come back, HOMRA would always be open for him.

After all, there are people who crave and hold on desperately to bonds and memories like Tatara, and there are those who avoid and terrified of them like Saruhiko.

It's just the way life goes.

Izumo gets a call that evening from Awashima Seri, then he tells Tatara, "she left it on his desk, it seems. He has it now."

Tatara looks up from the book he's reading hopefully. "And?"

"Seri-chan saw him reading it."

That's good, Tatara thinks, feeling relief spreading out his chest and settles warmly in his belly. He leans back and chuckles, then continues strumming his guitar—maybe he can come up with a song tonight. There are words tickling at the back of his mind, begging to be given melodies, and he thinks Anna will like this one, too.

He gets the chance to glimpse Awashima Seri the next day, when she exits their bar. When he comes in, Izumo waves a letter at him, and Tatara's eyes widen brightly.

"Izumo-san, is that…?"

"It's for you," there's a tone of fondness and admiration in Izumo's voice, like Tatara's just won some kind of huge tournament. "I didn't think he would reply, but—huh. It's you who sent the letter, after all."

"I didn't think he would reply, either." Tatara answers cheerfully, fingers working deftly to open the letter. It's short, not even half a page full, but Tatara feels like that would be asking too much, so he settles down and simply reads on. Each word, each phrase, carefully reading them until the end where Saruhiko signs the letter, and then he begins again from the beginning.

_Totsuka-san._

_This has better be the last time you ask Fukuchou to give me a letter. She gets really frustrating when she feels like she's done me a favor. She's already increasing my workload, it's ridiculous. There's probably another stack of paperwork on my desk tomorrow morning, it's really troublesome so stop. There's nothing between me and HOMRA anymore, so you can stop asking how I've been doing too._

_Were you aware that you just gave me blackmail materials? Tell Chitose that if he keeps sleeping around, he'll easily be arrested for public indecency and sexual harassment one day. Misaki is going to laugh his ass of if that happens, though, so I guess that's okay. At any rate, you shouldn't tell me too much about what happens or I'll use them against you._

_Those are good pictures. Thanks for telling me about Misaki. Stop asking Fukuchou to give me letters and send them to my house like a fucking normal person instead._

_-Fushimi Saruhiko-_

-o0o-

**December 04: Izumo learns how to film things.**

"What's so interesting about this?" Izumo mutters, fumbles a little bit with the camera, and it makes a whirring sound.

"Aaaah!" Tatara frowns. "Izumo-san, please be careful! It's an old-style camera, so I'll have to buy more films for it if they run out." He reaches up to grab the precious camera from Izumo, fingers brushing air when Izumo raises the camera higher. "Izumo-san, come on, give it back."

Izumo makes a thoughtful noise, poking on more buttons, and the whirring stops. Tatara scowls; there goes the precious seconds spent on the ceiling of the bar. "I thought you're not interestedin these kinds of things, Izumo-san."

"I'm not. It just looks so complicated, compared to our phones."

"That's part of the art," Tatara smiles. "You know, when you film something, you have to be careful about lots of things. Like the lightings and angles and focus—wait!" he shoots up and snatches the camera off Izumo's hand when the older man's finger starts poking on the lenses. "Aah, seriously, Izumo-san, the lenses are really fragile so be careful!"

"I polish wine glass every day, Tatara. I won't break it." Izumo answers airily, now making a bridge with his hands and rests his chin on them. "It seems like you've really taken filming seriously. That's good."

"Is it?" Tatara chuckles. "I don't really pay too much attention to techniques when I shoot, though. It's just—when it looks like a good thing, you just want to shoot it, don't you? Then you'll keep the memories safe," he taps the camera softly, "here. I'll show you properly, look."

He gives the camera back. "Hold it like this, steady. This is how you turn it on and—see, it's started recording." He shows Izumo how to adjust the lenses, zooming in on an egg replica. "It's not that different from our phones."

Izumo shrugs. "I'm just glad you stopped bringing weird things into my bar after getting your camera." He turns the camera in his hand, pokes some buttons, shooting Tatara rather closely, and Tatara reflexively covers his face with his hands.

"That's mean, Izumo-san," he laughs, but he knows Izumo doesn't mind the weird things he's accumulated in the bar through all his hobbies. Tatara personally thinks those things give their bar a character—this is the only bar who has egg replicas and bonsai sitting on the counter, after all. Also, he knows sometimes Izumo also polishes the egg replicas and the bonsai pot, too. "Those things have memories with them, too, you know."

Izumo raises an eyebrow. "Why is it that you're so fixated with keeping memories, anyway?"

Tatara shrugs. "I'm the vassal of the King. Shouldn't I be?" He tilts his head, then laughs and drops his hands back. "Izumo-san, it's not recording. What did you do?"

"Ah, what a pity. I thought I got you just now."

-o0o-

**December 05: Chitose and Dewa find out that they've hooked up.**

The fact that Dewa is head over heels for Chitose is practically an open secret, but the only one who never notices is Chitose himself.

Tatara knows how nonchalant and dense Chitose can be, but considering the amount of time Dewa has been pining quietly while his childhood friend sleeps around—well, then it's just sad. He never does anything, though, because that has never been his role. His role is being the part of the audience, recording every single second of memorable moments. There's no use in poking his nose into people's business anyway.

Dewa bringing a half-dying Chitose back to their bar after a night out is a common occurrence, too. What isn't is that today Dewa seems as smashed as Chitose is—the two of them are stumbling and leaning heavily onto each other when they step into the bar. Izumo makes a displeased sound, tells Yata to get the older duo upstairs so they won't bother other patrons, but Tatara gets up even before Yata move, waving him dismissively.

"I'll take care of them," he says, and Yata grins gratefully.

So Tatara drags the two of them upstairs, into one of the spare room that Izumo keep for the members, then literally dumps Chitose on a couch and Dewa on another. Izumo should be sending someone up to deliver water, but there's nothing better than this time to record into his camera the stupidity of two drunks who don't seem to recognize where they are or who they're with. It's a miracle they make it back to HOMRA.

The camera whirrs pleasantly, and Tatara settles next to Chitose. "Izumo-san is going to kill you tomorrow, Chitose."

Chitose makes a grunt, lets his arm cover his eyes and sighs. "Wh'should I do, Totssska-san…"

"What is it?"

"I—" he mumbles, face going aflame. "I really really love 'im."

Totsuka blinks. "Who?"

"Masaomiiii," Chitose whines. "I love Masaaaa. Wha' should I dooo."

Totsuka glances across, where Dewa is now half-sitting and half-sprawling on the couch, an expression of disbelief and exasperation in his face. "You, wha'—" he slurs, shakes his head, then slumps back onto the sofa. "Bu' I've lov'd you feralong time, st'pid."

"Nooo," Chitose says, then hiccups. "You d-don't. Said Imma troooouble. Alwaysss." One hand flails, trying to grab hold of Totsuka's shirt, and starts sobbing earnestly. Tatara watches, fascinated. "Masa isn' ev'r gonnna loveme back."

"I love You." Dewa announces into the whole room. "I love You."

"Liiiiees."

"I love You."

"Okay," Tatara says, gently prying Chitose's fingers off his shirt. "Both of you should go to sleep, now. You'll forget all about this tomorrow anyway."

And that's true. Because the next morning, Chitose is back to his nonchalant self, and Dewa back to pining silently. Which is weird to see after last night, Tatara thinks, but the two of them most likely forget everything about last night. So Tatara snags Chitose aside and announces to the whole bar, "everyone, let's watch something!"

"Watch what?" Chitose starts, but Eric is already fumbling with the projector and everyone is gathered; Tatara simply dumps him next to Dewa before making his way to sit next to Anna. Then there's Chitose on the screen, drunk and incoherent, saying, "I love Masaaaa. Wha' should I dooo."

It's fascinating to watch Chitose and Dewa's faces turn an interesting shade of red, but it's more fascinating to watch the rest of HOMRA members erupt into celebratory whoops, pumping their fists up in the air, or jumping on their seats. There are shouts of "fucking finally!" and "it took you guys so fucking long!" and "I was about to kill them if they go on longer than this!" that only serves to baffle Chitose and Dewa more.

Tatara chuckles when the two glares at him, turns to Izumo and loudly asks, "no one's using the room upstairs right, Izumo-san?"

"It's empty," Izumo says, and that's all Dewa needs before dragging Chitose away and upstairs, catcalls trailing behind him. When they disappear, Izumo bops Tatara on the head. "If the room stinks after, you're airing it."

"That's mean, Izumo-san," Tatara laughs, because it's worth it, isn't it?

-o0o-

**December 06: Anna plays and snuggles.**

One of Tatara's favorite moments of the day is sitting on the couch under the blanket, reading a picture book out loud to Anna. Anna will always listen to his story, enraptured and unable to come out of the world Tatara's woven around them, innocent eyes wide and fascinated. He likes that expression.

Anna hasn't gotten a lot of chance to just be a kid, after all.

But today, Anna seems unusually distracted. Tatara closes the book after two pages, inwardly disappointed that his story isn't interesting enough to capture Anna's attention today. He slides the book onto the table, lifts the blanket and pokes Anna on the cheek. "Hellooooo. Anna-chan. Is Anna there?"

Anna starts, blinking for a moment, then turns at him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't look so upset," Tatara chides, lets his fingers pinch Anna's cheek once. He smiles and carefully pats Anna on the head. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Anna says too readily. "The story? Tatara isn't going to finish it?"

"Well," Tatara tilts his head, watches Anna does the same, and chuckles. "My number one fan doesn't seem to be very interested in me today. Maybe I should continue it tomorrow."

Anna is silent—she always is, but this is unusual. Tatara inches closer, bends low to search for her gaze. He sighs when Anna pointedly ignores his attempt, so he drops the blanket and straightens up.

Then his arm shoots out to grab Anna by her hips, and the other moves to tickle her on the belly.

Anna yelps and shrieks once, then struggles with all her might to push Tatara away, but Tatara only laughs and laughs and laughs. He pulls Anna into his arms, lets her twist under his chest, pushing and tickling back, feels Anna's shoulders shake hard and guesses that she's trying so hard not to laugh. Anna's head collides with his chin, and suddenly his legs are all tangled with the blanket, Anna pushing him too hard, and they tumbles down, Tatara's back hitting the wooden floor with a loud thud.

"Ow-ow-ow," Tatara chuckles, arms securely around Anna's figure on top of him. "Anna, that was mean."

"It's Tatara's fault," Anna throws back, but her voice is soft and shaky, like she's suppressing a laugh. She shifts and Tatara lets her, dropping his arms back. Anna sits up on his stomach, looking down on him, a lovely shade of red dusting her cheeks. Tatara grins up, makes a giving up gesture by showing his empty palms.

Anna's face slowly goes back to blank as she stares at Tatara. There's silence for a moment before she begins, "Does Tatara remember?"

"Eh?"

"When I told Tatara," she hesitates, something shadowing her eyes. "That if Tatara stays close to Mikoto, he isn't going to live very long."

"Oh," Tatara smiles up. "Yes. Were you thinking about that, Anna?"

The girl nods minutely, then continues, "because the hamster died."

"The… hamster…?"

"At school."

"Oh, I see." Tatara says, because he remembers the way Anna gets excited around pets, around animals, that she can read their minds, and wonders if Anna was talking to the hamster when it died. He raises one hand, lets his fingers play with Anna's bangs before pulling her back down onto his chest.

"Don't worry, Anna," Tatara says cheerfully. "Very long is an indefinite amount of time, isn't it?"

Anna nods.

"So if very long means 200 years, that means I'll at least be alive for another 100 years, right?" he looks down, finds Anna watching him closely. "Isn't that long enough to live?"

Anna looks thoughtful for a second. "It is," she agrees, but her fingers are clutching at his shirt desperately. Tatara smiles and pats her head carefully, fixing the ribbon that's gone askew in their previous tickling competition. Then the corner of his eyes catches a pair of familiar legs, and Mikoto's voice grunts from above: "What are you doing on the floor?"

"Mikoto," Anna says, and Tatara brightens. "King!"

-o0o-

**December 07: A hug is the best medicine for Mikoto.**

There's the best message ever in his inbox.

The bar is alive and alight tonight, patrons going in and out with laughter trailing behind them. Chitose's taken a spot behind the counter, helping Izumo with the customers, and other HOMRA members are on their usual spots, loud and boisterous but only adding to the warm atmosphere in the dim light. Tatara even gets to sing, once or twice. Anna has done her best to stay awake until his performance is over even though it's way past her bedtime, and in the end, Mikoto has to pluck her off her seat and brings her upstairs to put her to bed.

Then Tatara's phone chimes and he gets the best message ever.

"King," he slides onto the seat next to Mikoto, grinning from ear to ear, his phone secure in his hand. "Did you know, that hugging is a good medicine?"

Mikoto raises an eyebrow.

"Because it transfers energy and gives the person hugged an emotional lift," he reads out loud, leaning forward so that his arms are fully extended on the counter and presses close to Mikoto's side. "Apparently, you need four hugs a day for survival, eight for maintenance, and twelve for growth."

Izumo chuckles as he slides a glass of red wine before Mikoto. "That's a lot of hugs. If that's true, Mikoto, then you're definitely not healthy."

Mikoto's turns at Izumo, one perfect eyebrow raising again lazily as if he doesn't give a damn about being healthy or not, but there's humor and indulgence carved in his eyes and the left corner of his lips are a bit higher then usual. Tatara regrets that he left his camera on the other side of the bar—Mikoto being looser and happier than usual is something he definitely doesn't want to miss.

But there'll be another day, so it's fine.

Izumo juggles the bottles expertly; catching another one that Chitose's just thrown at him. The female patrons on the other end of the bar counter are making high-pitched noises, so Izumo pauses and sends them a wink. Tatara watches the girls practically swoon, amused.

Izumo smiles. "So what else does it say, Tatara?"

"Scientists say that hugging is a form of communication because it can say things you don't have words for." Tatara tilts his head, watches Mikoto sip his drink. "Anna must be giving you a lot of hugs, right King?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mikoto grunts, fingers lightly shaking the glass to make the liquid inside swirl. It's a beautiful color of light, Tatara thinks whenever the wine catches the dim lighting of the bar, and wonders if he should get up and get his camera. He's too comfortable to move, though.

Izumo chuckles. "Maybe we should make it a routine. Then no one has to yell so much in my bar, because everything is already well said through hugging."

Tatara perks up. "Hugging day?"

The chuckle Mikoto lets out is gruff and low, but it's pleasant to his ears. "They will be too scared to hug me."

"Aw, King, don't sound so bitter," Tatara says happily, and then he straightens up to raise his arms and winds them around Mikoto's broad shoulder. His King stiffens for a second, obviously not used to uch gesture, and from the corner of his eyes Tatara can see Izumo pausing on his movement, looking surprised.

He smiles and rests his chin on the junction between Mikoto's neck and shoulders. One, two, three, four seconds—then one of Mikoto's arm slides up his back and pats thrice, returning the hug.

"And the nicest thing about a hug, King," he says into Mikoto's ear, "is that you usually can't give one without getting one."

Mikoto grunts something he can't catch. Tatara closes his eyes, wishes fervently someone films this, because this is gold, the way Mikoto awkwardly return his hug with one arm, patting him on the back, and it's warm and comfortable and safe, and something is bursting out of his chest like bright fireworks—pride.

He's been right. Mikoto's power is to protect. This man—this man whom he's been trailing behind all these years, is going to be someone big. Someone important. Someone who will leave one strong impression in the hearts of ten thousand.

He releases Mikoto, grins at the stern look Mikoto gives him and dances his way across the room, where he's left his camera next to Eric. Izumo is laughing now, most likely at Mikoto's face, and the HOMRA members are grinning brightly, but most importantly, there's a soft smile playing on Mikoto's lips. Tatara turns on his camera and shoots.

"Okay, since the night is still young and the weather seems perfect, I'm going out to shoot for a bit," he announces, zooming in the faces of the HOMRA members, savoring the warmth on their expression. "I'll be back in a while."

"Yeah, careful," Izumo says, smiling as everyone does—Yata and Chitose and Dewa and Fujishima and Eric and Kamamoto and everyone—and Mikoto raises his glass in an acknowledging gesture, and Tatara—Tatara is happy.

He is unbelievably happy.

"Bye, everyone!"

The door closes behind him, and Tatara has a second to regret the fact that he didn't get to film Mikoto's expression when he hugs him.

But, oh well. That's okay.

There's still tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

-o0o-

There's never been tomorrow for him.

-o0ofinitoo0o-


	8. And Then There Was I (Alone, Left)

Title: And Then There Was I (Alone, Left)

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Kusanagi Izumo-centric, Kushina Anna. It's intended to be gen, but go ahead and squint for some Mikoto/Izumo/Tatara and Izumo/Bar Counter.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings/Summary: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness, canon character death. Kusanagi Izumo, the aftermath of being left behind.

A/N: Because I think the one who would quietly mourn behind the screen and not telling a soul would be Izumo. And because I think he'd have a hard time coping with what happened, having all the responsibility on his shoulder and bearing it single-handedly. He'd be fine, I think, but he'd also have a very hard time dealing with the fact that he's the only one left of the original trio. So here's a ficlet. Hopefully you guys will—enjoy?

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_And Then There Was I (Alone, Left)_

It's seven in the morning, and it is very bright outside.

The ice in his drink clinks daintily, the sound echoing in the corners of his empty bar. The liquid inside swirls as he tilts the glass this way and that while he watches slivers of morning sunrays slipping in through the curtains. The wooden floor of his bar glimmers under the light; it reminds him of scattered tears and hearts. Colors are dancing before his eyes—and isn't it funny, that he's only realized how beautiful they are now when he's seen the same exact thing every single morning?

He looks down at his drink, and thinks of blood. Thinks of the color red that turns black on the pure white snow, like a stain impossible to get rid of. Thinks of the color red that blends perfectly into a black jacket and a smile tinged with apology. Thinks of last breath, last words, last chances.

Thinks of being the last.

Maybe that's just what owning a bar means. Everyone who comes in will eventually leave, and he would forever be the last, the one to clean up the mess and put everything back in the right order and take care of stories-hearts-laughter-tears-hopes-lives scattering all over the wooden floor. He really shouldn't be too attached to some of his particular patrons, because he'll always be left behind. He's the owner, after all, he needs to stay and take care of what's left.

Even if what's left is just blood and tears and pride.

Eight years is a long time. Long enough to define happiness, long enough to carve dreams and hopes and expectation. Eight years should be long enough to compensate for the sudden goodbyes and unspoken apologies.

Except it isn't.

Grief is a terrifying thing, he thinks, feeling it stirring in his stomach, crawling up to his chest and thickens until he can't breathe. It weighs heavily, like the unspoken apology that is too reckless, and he hates it, he hates the way his King throws away all his responsibility onto his shoulder. Hates the way it makes his shoulders sag, hates the way it anchors him to reality, hates the way it forces him to stand tall.

He has so much to do, but he doesn't even know what to do now.

There's an old magazine on the counter; worn and well-loved, opened to the pagespread of a wild lion in an African savannah. He dips a finger into his drink, and dots the page with thick red droplets. The paper crinkles under the wetness of his fingertip. It makes the corner of his lips twitch up bitterly.

"I should go to Africa," he murmurs absently. The sunrays on the counter dances and sets the red alight, flickers warmly like his abandoned but lit cigarette on the ashtray. "How would you like that, huh? I'll leave and go to Africa, and your clansmen are going to kill each other when they bicker. That way Tatara will finally grow to dislike you and you'll be alone in your afterlife."

The unspoken _**too**_ weighs heavily in his tongue, but he swallows it back. It tastes like regret.

"You're horrible, Mikoto."

He closes his eyes, and imagines the warm laughter trailing behind Tatara as he drags Mikoto down. Imagines one time where he holds Tatara's hand in left, and shakes Mikoto's in right. Imagines the gorgeous red blazing like life and hope and freedom, and remembers the little red glows floating up amidst the white snowflakes, the last gift from the King to their Princess, the remains of a soul who'd chosen to go down to do what he had to do.

There's never been nothing after revenges, he reminds himself. But it doesn't mean that they're not necessary either.

He'd have died trying himself, if it were him.

With a heavy sigh, he slumps on the counter, inhales the smell of the wood, expensive and filled with laughter and contented melodies. It's smooth under his fingertips, but steady and strong when he grips it. He chuckles, whispers love and regrets and curses against the counter surface, and hopes he's strong enough. Strong enough to fix things, strong enough to pick up the pieces, strong enough to take care, strong enough to fulfill his deceased friends' last wishes, strong enough to mend the bond. Their bond.

Strong enough to stand and face a tomorrow that he cannot see.

"Izumo."

He doesn't see Anna in the doorway, because he doesn't look up. But he feels her coming, feels her tiny hands tugging his leaves, and he wants to cry because he's not the one Anna suppose to tug on, but he opens his arms nonetheless and lets the little girl winds up her arms around his neck.

He smiles. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Her head shakes, tiny and quiet, but her arms tighten. He draws her into his embrace, rigid and desperate, because she's the only person who completely understands, because he's the only one left for her to hold on. He buries his face onto her hair, silky smooth and peach-scented, and remembers the day she comes, remembers the day she takes Mikoto's hand, remembers the day she curls up against Tatara, remembers the day she sits down on his lap for the first time.

"Don't go, Izumo."

The grief in his throat thickens impossibly, closes it up and bursts out through his breath. He grits down, closes his eyes and lets himself drown in tears.

-o0o-


	9. He Only Needs One to Blaze

Title: There Are Countless Little Glows (He Only Needs One to Blaze)

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki. Mentions of Suoh Mikoto, Kushina Anna, Totsuka Tatara and Kusanagi Izumo

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings/Summary: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness. This is basically just an excuse for me to indulge in my fascination on hatsumode and Japanese matsuri, though.

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Have some early year SaruMisa teeth-rotting fluff. :D This is also a birthday present for mizuouji on tumblr, because she's beautiful. Thank you for the hardwork and always scanlating for us, mizuouji-san. :D

Just a quick glossary so I wouldn't confuse anyone? Hatsumode is the first shrine visit on the new year, usually done on the first to third day of the new year, though most come at midnight of the new year. Omamori is, well, charms, they vary in uses though, there are good luck charms, or for protection, or for warding off evil spirits. Omikuji is sacred fortune papers lottery that tells you your luck of the year; it ranges from dai-kichi (great blessing) to dai-kyou (great curse). If you got dai-kyou, to avoid the bad luck, you're supposed to tie it on a branch of a tree.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_There Are Countless Little Glows (He Only Needs One to Blaze)_

There are countless little lampions swaying above their heads alighting the way to the shrine; their lights too blinding against the pitch black midnight sky and their tiny fire flirting with the chilly winter night breeze. Everything is a buzzing white noise; the vendors calling for customers, the claps and murmurs of prayers, children's laughter, teenagers' giggles, the soft friction of old kimono brushing against another, the staccato steps of the wooden sandals. Saruhiko squints as he looks up and brings a hand up.

He can't see.

"Here, dumbass, let's go!"

There's always warmth in Misaki's hand. Saruhiko lets his own curls into Misaki's lightly, lets the shorter boy leads him towards the long line of people before the altar. It's always a bit frightening, to be led completely by someone else because he can't see through the blinding lights. A form of complete and total submission in itself, which Saruhiko knows he'll only ever give to Misaki. So he tightens his grip, feels Misaki's thumb brushes his knuckles reassuringly, and he simply follows.

"Did you return last year's charm yet?"

His breath mingle with various scent of food wafting in the air, tantalizing and promising warmth, but the stalls are ridiculously crowded and expensive, so there's no use dropping by, anyway. Misaki would cook him something delicious first thing tomorrow. He always does.

"Totsuka-san did it for me." He muttered, blinking away the white edges on his vision. Misaki's back is blurry, but his grip is solid and _there_. They stop before the water basin, wordlessly releasing each other's hand to wash their hands and mouth, and then Misaki is tugging at his sleeve again.

"C'mon, Saru, we'll be left behind! King and Anna are already up front!"

Saruhiko scowls. "Totsuka-san will be mad at you if you cut the line." He turns at the incense fire going nearby, at the people bathing themselves in the smoke, frowning, and then starts when Misaki begins dragging him towards it. "I'm not doing that."

"It's for your health, idiot." Misaki grumbles. "We do this every year, stop being so goddamn childish."

"I don't want to hear that from Misaki," Saruhiko drawls, because it's Misaki who looks forward to hatsumode, it's Misaki who's so excited about these stupid traditions. Saruhiko is completely fine sleeping the whole New Year's Eve away, maybe curling up under the kotatsu with a bowl of mikan just an arm reach away. But no, they have to get up and out into the chilly winter midnight, and now he's inhaling smoke from a dawdling fire, Misaki's hands on his shoulders keeping him bent halfway forward.

He coughs once, hears Misaki's laughter, and swats his hands away. Misaki flits back to his side, grinning widely as he bends forward himself, bathing on the smoke.

He can't resist commenting. "Make sure the smoke reaches your head. Your brain could use it."

Misaki elbows him none-too-gently on the guts.

They're the only ones left who are still stuck in the long line before the altar to pray. He can see Mikoto and Anna (perching on his shoulder, damn little brat has it easy) moving away from the altar by the time he's lodged between Misaki and a young woman whose furisode looks like the night bleeds into it. Misaki's talking to Totsuka-san on his watch-phone, leaning onto Saruhiko's side heavily, and Saruhiko lets go of his hand to drape an arm on Misaki's shoulder instead.

"They're going on ahead to get the omikuji," Misaki tells him, a half-hearted annoyed tone lacing his voice, but he isn't moving. "Your fault that we're being left behind, dumbass."

Saruhiko clicks his tongue. "You're the one who forgot your last year charm."

"But you should've gotten into line when I'm busy burning it. That way I can just cut in and join you into the line."

"I'll get scolded by Kusanagi-san."

"Like you ever cared."

_I never do_, Saruhiko thinks, but smirks down and drawls instead, "if it's you, Mi-sa-kiii…."

Twenty minutes later the two of them are standing side by side in front of the altar. Misaki flips the coin before throwing it in, rings the bell and claps his hand, and Saruhiko watches as he closes his eyes tight, an expression of utmost seriousness carved on every single crease on his face. He clicks his tongue; he doesn't know why Misaki's always been so fixated on Hatsumode when they have to wait in line for almost thirty fucking minutes just to pray. It's a good thing there's a local shrine close by; if they'd gone to the famous shrine instead, they'd have to wait more than an hour just to reach the altar, and that's simply ridiculous.

His finger fishes out a coin from his pocket—100 yen. Damn, he forgot to get a change. Can't be helped then. He throws the coin into the offering box, reaches up for the bell and pauses when he touches it. The rope is rough under his palm, worn with time and brittled at the edges, but when he shakes it, the bell still rings loud and clear, breaking through the endless white noise buzzing on his ear.

Misaki brushes up against him, still praying.

Saruhiko claps and thinks _I want Misaki to look at me. Only me, only me, only me._

"What did you wish for?" Misaki asks when they move out of the line, leading him towards the place where they could get omikuji. Their fingers are tangled awkwardly; Saruhiko's thumb between Misaki's middle and ring finger, and Misaki's pressed up close against his side, warm and even brighter than the lights.

"If I tell you it wouldn't come true," Saruhiko says. Misaki snorts, turns an amused gaze at Saruhiko and shakes his head.

"Don't tell me you actually fucking believe it, idiot."

Misaki does, Saruhiko thinks, even if Misaki never admits it himself. Misaki believes, because that's one of the last things he has left, a courage to believe in something so abstract like a god, or like the concept of a hero. It's so ridiculous and dumb, but Saruhiko doesn't point it out. Instead he plucks off Misaki's beanie and musses up his hair, listens to the shorter boy's outraged yelp as he holds the beanie up for a moment.

"Idiot dumbass!" Misaki punches him hard on the shoulder, and Saruhiko smirks. Then Misaki turns and brightens, because "come on, omikuji!"

Saruhiko raises an eyebrow. "The omamori—"

"Totsuka-san said he got some for us already. Come on, omikuji!"

One of the stupidest ways to waste money, in Saruhiko's opinion, is for omikuji. It's no different than a lottery for him, after all. He makes a face when he puts his 100 yen into the coin box, takes the silver box Misaki shoves at him and shakes it before taking one stick from the top of the box. He glances at the number on the stick, then turns to the rows of boxes marked with numbers.

"This is stupid," he remarks. Misaki glances up, rolls his eyes and snatches his stick away before bending down back to the numbered boxes, obviously about to get Saruhiko his omikuji. Someone from behind is pushing, causing Misaki to nearly lose his balance, but Saruhiko steps closer and pushes back discreetly.

They're out of the crowd in a blink of an eye later, Misaki holding two fortune papers on his hands with a stupid victorious look. He hands the one on his left to Saruhiko, to which Saruhiko just clicks his tongue and says again, "this is stupid."

"It's for fun," Misaki says, bringing up his paper, then freezes.

Saruhiko can guess. "Dai-kyou?"

The pinched look on Misaki's face grows, the corners of his lips turning downside, his eyebrows tauting in disappointment, and he reminds Saruhiko of a displeased puppy. He glances at his own fortune paper, then smirks and waves it before Misaki. "I get dai-kichi."

Misaki glares. "I got that for you."

"I drew the lot."

"Oh, fuck off." Misaki grumbles, but he's leaning onto Saruhiko's side again, heavier than before, even as he folds the paper into a long rectangular shape. He's pouting, Saruhiko notices, and represses the urge to kiss the lips curving down. They're standing on the sidewalk now, watching people dressed in fancy kimono and furisode pass in the haze of festive, and the lights are still blinding, but Misaki is the only one vibrant and clear enough to see.

Misaki has always been.

"I need to tie this up that tree," Misaki mumbles, waving his omikuji lazily. Saruhiko hums, draping an arm on Misaki's shoulder and pulls him closer subtly. The night sky is pitch black when he looks up, a stark contrast with the blinding glows of the lampions painting white edges on his vision. Saruhiko squints, and then ducks his head to rub his eyes with his free hand.

That is when Misaki leans up, raises a hand to keep his head down and bites Saruhiko's ear gently.

"Oi," Saruhiko grunts half-heartedly when the bite turns into a nibble; Misaki's laughter ringing in his ear. He tilts his head just so and leans forward, presses his lips onto Misaki's once and then moves up to bite Misaki's nose.

The shorter boy yelps.

"Gross, Saru!"

"People bite back," Saruhiko shoots back, but Misaki's fingers are finding his, tangling them together again, awkward but tight and steady. His little finger's between Misaki's middle and ring fingers now, twisting just so that Saruhiko has to step closer so it doesn't hurt. Misaki is laughing, punching him on the shoulderso hard it'll probably bruise a little, and more people are still coming to the shrine, driven by tradition and hopes for a great new year.

It's stupid. Saruhiko can't understand why Misaki is so fixated with Hatsumode.

But amidst the blinding white glows painting white edges on his vision, Misaki blazes a vibrant red brighter than anything in Saruhiko's world, and that's a good way to start a new year, isn't it?

**-o0ofinitoo0o-**


	10. When at Once Darkness Disappears

Title: When at Once, Darkness Disappears

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Suoh Mikoto/Totsuka Tatara.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness. Set way, way, way before the TV series began.

A/N: Written in late, late hours of February 14th 2013, intended to be Tatara's birthday fic. This was really not what I intended to write for Tatara's birthday, but it came out so eh, whatever. Like, it doesn't even mention birthday in the slightest, and wow, accidental angst slipping in. D:

**A [K] Project fanfiction**

_When at Once, Darkness Disappears_

Tatara woke up from his nap with a start.

He paused for a second, because he wasn't sure what woke him up in the first place. A nightmare, he thought, but of what he couldn't remember. There was a cold sensation on his back, one that couldn't go away even as he curled himself further into the cocoon of his blanket. It unsettled him; like he was sleeping somewhere unfamiliar and having his back to the door. So he poked his head out of the blanket and took a peek of the bar only to see—nothing.

"Huh?" He murmured, slowly shuffling up and letting the blanket fall onto his shoulders. "Did everyone go while I was asleep, I wonder…"

Tatara buries his face onto the couch armrest, inhaling deep, and let himself smile when he recognized Mikoto's scent.

He closed his eyes back, but the silence was too deafening. He wasn't used to this kind of silence—not anymore. Not since Mikoto and HOMRA became a part of his life. His life was always full to the brim nowadays, every second threatening to burst with warmth that he wasn't sure how to contain. There were always people and laughter and sometimes domestic violence, but Tatara loved every single moment of that, too.

It was quiet. Tatara thought it was quite disturbing that he couldn't hear a single noise. He spent the next five minutes wondering if he'd turned deaf somehow, and what would happen if he really did (would King spend longer times with him instead of sleeping upstairs? Would Saruhiko still mind if Tatara called him by his first name? Would Anna be disappointed, because Tatara wouldn't make up songs anymore?), before deciding that that was silly, because he could still hear his own voice earlier, couldn't he?

He cleared his throat just to make sure, and grinned at the raw, sleep-heavy sound he made.

The clock on the wall said it past five in the afternoon. He should probably get up and turn on the lights. It was getting dark; he could see shadows growing from the corners of the bar, darkening the wooden floor as they crept up on the wall. His eyes tracked them, unblinking, unable to wrench his gaze away. The unsettling feeling clawed on his back, and for the first time in a long while, Tatara felt his breath catch.

He blinked. Twice. Thrice. And then opened his mouth, but he didn't know what sound to make, so he clamped back down, nearly biting his tongue in the process.

Oh, right. It had been so long, he'd nearly forgotten what this feeling was.

"…it's lonely.."

He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled back into the blanket and let it cover his whole head, until he couldn't see the shadows anymore, until everything was completely dark, until his eyes involuntarily closed tightly, until he began chanting senseless words in his head to distract himself, even if the silence weighed on him, pressing him from every side, cold and _sad_.

"Oi. What are you doing."

He started, nearly throwing himself back in defense, but his blanket was pulled off him in one single smooth motion. It was completely dark now—he couldn't see anything but hazy shapes, but the scent of cigarette assaulting his nose was too familiar that it banished the previous weight in his chest in an instant. Then it was warm again—flooding his chest like it had never been before, and Tatara was so _grateful_ to be alive right now.

"King."

He opened his arm and reached out, a smile slipping onto his face so easily because even if it was still so dark, this person before him was a the very essence of red—of light and fire and warmth. A person lonelier than anyone else, a person Tatara couldn't ever properly understand, a person Tatara loved above everything else.

Mikoto made a short humming noise, and the couch dipped as he sat before Tatara, leaning in to press their lips together.

In the dark, Tatara still couldn't see anything, but that was okay. Mikoto was here.


	11. Happy Birthday to Me

Title: Happy Birthday to Me

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Totsuka Tatara, Kushina Anna, cameo by Yata Misaki

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness. Speed writing, woot!

A/N: Written in the late, late hours of February 14th 2013. I had four minutes before February 14th ends, here's the real birthday fic, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOTSUKA TATARA.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Happy Birthday to Me_

Tatara thinks this was the cutest thing he's ever seen.

"What are you doing?"

Anna looks up at him, silent and expectant, but her hands are moving, up-down-sideways; her lips making a tighter line as Tatara stares longer, uncomprehending.

"Anna?" He kneels so she can stop looking up, and her lips start curving in a subtle pout. Tatara feels bad because he still can't understand what Anna's trying to tell him by moving her hands like an orchestra meister, but he can't help the chuckle slipping out of his lips at the sight because yes, it's really cute.

Anna stops her movements and clutches her skirt, hesitant.

"What are you doing?" Tatara repeats, and stifles his laughter when Anna throws him an annoyed look. "No, really, I don't understand what those mean. Sign language? Though I think sign language involves more movements than just moving your hands up and down and sideways."

He wishes Anna would speak more to him. It's been months since the events at the facility, and while Anna is slowly opening herself to HOMRA members, she still doesn't talk much. Sometimes Tatara wonders if it's mere stubbornness of her not to talk, because when she does talk she seems fine and Tatara loves the sound of her voice. It'd be nice if he can make her talk more often, and maybe laugh, but everything starts with small steps, right? He shouldn't force her.

"Totsuka-san!" there's a holler from the bar, excitement and urgency lining the voice. "Come here, quick! We got you a cake!"

Oh, so that's what Yata's been doing out and missing lunch. Tatara feels his lips twitching up into a smile, amused and fond, then calls back with a simple "okay!" before turning back to Anna and says, "should we go now, Anna?"

To his surprise, Anna looks down and folds herself back.

For a second, he panics, because Anna hasn't been closing herself from him since they got back from the facility, and now he isn't even sure what he's said wrong, but Anna is drawing away and he hastily grabs her hands. "Doesn't Anna like sweets?" he tries, covering his slip with a tight smile. "Don't you want to try the cake?"

Then his eyes catch Anna's, and—oh.

She's sulking. The childish type of sulking, because her lower lip is trembling faintly in disappointment and she's frowning ever-so-slightly, and the sight is so _normal_ that even Tatara has to fumble for a reaction.

He settles for a pleading look. "Are you mad?"

Anna shakes her head.

He smiles. "It's okay if you're mad, Anna," he pauses, searches her eyes and wonders if Anna remembers the color of his own. "Do you want to tell me why?"

"Totsuka-saaaan!" Yata's voice is louder now, impatient. "Come on, it's your birthday, we can't start without you!"

A small hand covers Tatara's hand, and Tatara looks up to a determined eyes now. Anna opens her mouth, closes it again, swallows, and opens it again to say, "your birthday."

"Huh?"

She steps back, moves her hands up and looks straight at him.

"Sing."

"Huh?" Tatara says, but Anna's moving her hands again, this time slower. Down, sideways, then up. Down, sideways, and up. And then it hits Tatara, because oh, he's dumb. Anna is moving her hands like an orchestra meister, because that's what she's doing.

He grins, wide and free and relieved, and begins, "Happy birthday to me."

The look in Anna's eyes brightens.

"Happy birthday to me," he continues, wishes that he can record this because this is unbearably cute and thoughtful of Anna, and he wants so badly to etch it into something tangible, to freeze the memory into something he can touch, he can see over and over and over again. "Happy birthday, dear Tatara…"

He thinks he sees the corner of Anna's lips twitch up in an aborted smile.

And really, that's enough of a birthday present, isn't it?

"Happy birthday to me."

He should buy a video camera.

—**-o0ofinitoo0o—-**


	12. How to Play a Matchmaker

Title: How to Play a Matchmaker (Case Study: Kushina Anna)

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters: Kushina Anna, Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness.

A/N: chipacchi on tumble made a sketch thing at 00:46 and shared it on twitter. IT CONSISTED OF PURE CUTENESS I HAD TO WRITE SOMETHING. Especially because I hadn't had anything written for SaruMisa's Valentine's Day hahaha. The sketch had also turned into this awesome art you can see at chipacchi. tumblr. c om (slash) post (slash) 43179210325 (slash) anna-the-matchmaker-shot

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_How to Play a Matchmaker (Case Study: Kushina Anna)_

"W-wait, Anna—" she almost makes Misaki stumble when she reaches out for his arm, but she doesn't let go. Even if Misaki is now making a face. "We're—supposed to go back to where Mikoto-san is!"

There's the still familiar sound of tongue-clicking, and Anna tightens her grip on Saruhiko's uniform coat as Saruhiko starts to move away. "Get her off me quickly, then," Saruhiko mutters, and Anna hears the tone of annoyance and accusation lacing his voice. "Go back to your Mikoto-san or whatever."

"Wha—you'd better fucking stop using that tone to say Mikoto-san's name, dumbass!"

"Misaki is very loud," Anna says, and just like that, Misaki clamps his mouth shut. She glances at Saruhiko, catches the corner of his lips twitch up in in an aborted sneer. She chooses not to comment on that, though, and merely waits, but the coming silence is an awkward one in which Saruhiko is rolling his eyes and Misaki is finding the pavement under their feet very interesting.

She pushes back the urge to huff in irritation. Really, adults are troublesome. They keep hiding their feelings even though their chests are about to explode, even if they probably realize that they're only making things worse. Sometimes she wishes everyone has her ability to rummage inside another's head. Because here, standing between Misaki and Saruhiko like this, isn't actually all the pleasant.

The thing is, she can feel the extreme embarrassment and nervousness threatening to spill from Misaki's face like a molten lava waiting to paint his face a beautiful shade of red. Normally, she would describe such emotions as warm (but Tatara would use the word 'cute'), but right now, Misaki's warm clashes with Saruhiko's blaze of anger, of jealousy, of not-understanding and helplessness. It makes something in her heart twinge, and she wants to fix that.

She wants to fix that, so tonight Misaki can laugh his wild and carefree laugh that tinkles better than HOMRA's door chime. She wants to fix that, so the curved lines on Saruhiko's forehead may fade a little and maybe he can leave without that bitter, painful scowl that's so very often etched on his face when he remembers Misaki, because that scowl makes even Anna flinch.

So she tugs on Misaki's hand and puts it inside Saruhiko's coat pocket.

Misaki freezes. Saruhiko does, too.

It takes a long moment before Misaki blinks and _realizes_, and Anna lets her lips form a tight line in order not to smile when he fishes out a small chocolate candy from Saruhiko's pocket. Saruhiko's back is rigid as Misaki's eyes travel to his, wide in his disbelief.

"For Misaki," Anna says, because that's what she's gotten when she drops in Saruhiko's head earlier. It's just a candy; an unimportant piece of chocolate that gets distributed along the shopping district, and Saruhiko's gotten one. But the second that candy had touched Saruhiko's palm, his first thought had been Misaki, and Anna thinks that should count.

It's also probably why there's a faint shade of red on Saruhiko's face.

Misaki stares at the candy, then at Anna, and turns to Saruhiko at last. Then his face turns red, too—it's a pretty red, though not as pretty as Mikoto's—but the scowl on his face stay.

He tugs Anna, stronger this time, away from Saruhiko. Anna wants to protest, but Misaki is scowling at Saruhiko, pointing an accusing finger at him as he says, "so it's just giri choco for me, huh? W-well! I'll show you that I won't lose! I'll get you tezukuri choco on White Day, just you wait and see!"

She only has time to blink in surprise as Misaki gently prods her forward, grumbling about stupid monkeys who never bother to get proper presents when it matters. She wants to tell him that that's not the case, that Saruhiko's been thinking about Misaki, too, but she knows Misaki can't listen when he's like this, so she doesn't say anything. She can't see Saruhiko, because Misaki is blocking her when she tries to turn, but her lips twitches upward when she feels the excitement and elation replacing the previous anger and jealousy even for the growing distance between them.

Those feelings must have been very strong.

—**-o0ofinitoo0o—-**

Giri Choco: store-bought choco? Obligational chocolate, I think?

Tezukuri Choco: Handmade choco. These are really special. Shibuya Yuuri of Kyou Kara Maou! once called them "OTOKO NO ROMAN" /laughs


	13. Drunk Saruhiko

Title: Drunk!Saruhiko Does Not Do Passionate Booty Shake Nor Sing Maji Love 1000%. Or 2000%.

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters/Pairings: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness.

A/N: Anon-chan on tumblr randomly asked: "I wonder, what would Saruhiko be like if he were drunk?"

I answered: "he'll sing Maji Love 1000% and all the UtaPri songs, anon-chan. and does a passionate booty shake."

And then I accidentally ficced.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Drunk!Saruhiko Does Not Do Passionate Booty Shake Nor Sing Maji Love 1000%. Or 2000%._

The couch is brand new. Misaki considers it for three seconds and wonders if Kusanagi-san will kill him if Saru throws up on the couch, because the toilet is twelve fucking steps away from the couch and that is a very long journey for the drunk monkey.

He dumps Saruhiko on the couch anyway, and grunts in annoyance when Saruhiko's fingers refuse to let go of his shirt.

"Let go, dumbass," he scowls, but there's no heat in his voice, because Saruhiko actually looks adorable, like this: eyes half-lidded with hazy awareness, lips parted as his breath slipping out from them, the soft shade of red that colors his cheeks down to his neck. He pushes at Saruhiko's head, when the taller boy buries his face on Misaki's stomach. "I said let go, are you fucking listening, Saru?"

"No," the reply comes in a mumble as fingers tighten, bunching Misaki's shirt until it reveals the skin hidden underneath. "No."

Misaki sighs. "I'm just gonna get you some water, idiot." He runs his fingers through Saruhiko's hair, pulls at them until Saruhiko's head tilts up before flicking him on the forehead. Saruhiko blinks up owlishly, obviously only half-aware of what Misaki is saying, and Misaki is irritated at himself because he finds it cute. He pushes Saruhiko's bangs away and trails a finger on the younger boy's cheek.

"Fuck, Kusanagi-san is going to kill you if he found out that you're drunk. We're fucking underage, you know."

Saruhiko clicks his tongue (and what the fuck, Misaki thinks), leans forward and winds his arms around Misaki. "No," he mumbles, chin digging into Misaki's hipbone as he keeps his eyes on Misaki, and suddenly Misaki has to swallow.

"Let go."

"No." It's a simple word, and yet it sends a shiver through the older boy. "Come, Mi-sa-kiii—"

The drawl echoes in the room as Misaki feels himself pulled forward; he stumbles onto the couch with flailing arms and a yelp, then grunts in pain when his head crashed onto the couch's armrest hard. "Ugh, dumbass, stop clinging like that, fuck—" then he's flipped onto his back, and Saruhiko's weight settles on top of him.

"Not going," a kiss, on his collarbone. "Anywhere. You can't." Another one, on Misaki's jaw. "Mi-sa-kiii…" the drawl ends with a soft chuckle ghosting on Misaki's ear, and the arms around his waist tighten with the last word: "mine."

Misaki sighs and rolls his eyes, both exasperated and so taken in, he can't really say anything.

"If you puke on me I'm going to kill you."

"You won't," there's sleep on the edge of Saruhiko's voice now, one that makes Misaki's fingers itch to run themselves through the blue locks. He does so, listening to the contented sigh that escapes Saruhiko's lips, and isn't it fascinating, how open Saruhiko seems when alcohol clouds his mind.

"I fucking will, dumbass. I'll stab you with my skateboard, see if I won't."

There's that noise again, the one Saruhiko makes when he clicks his tongue. "You won't." The words sound more insistent now, even as the hazy and sleepy tone thickens. "You love me."

Misaki's fingers pause, breath catching on his throat.

Saruhiko's breath evens out, small puffs against Misaki's neck, his whole weight pinning Misaki down. Even asleep, his arms around Misaki's weight doesn't slacken, and Misaki really doesn't know what to do with that. With everything. With this unexpected clinginess and possessiveness and the flood of warmth that makes his every nerve tingle.

He sighs, runs his fingers carefully through a knot in Saruhiko's hair.

"Yeah, I fucking love you. Dumbass."

—**-o0ofinitoo0o—-**

tl;dr, a drunk Saru is a clingy and adorable Saru whose blush goes all the way down. DD


End file.
